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Go home to Mama

Today’s tears – I’m listening to the tribute concert to Kate McGarrigle on CBC, and it’s Anna McGarrigle singing the last song her sister wrote, about Greek goddesses; it’s calling young Prosperina to go home to her mother, Hera. “Go home to Mama,” wrote the dying musician, and Anna, about to sing, said, “It’s for all of us who go home to our mothers.”

As she spoke, I was standing at the kitchen counter polishing a silver necklace I just inherited from Mum – a simple chain she often wore. I never used to polish silver; my mother spent many hours polishing hers, and this morning, I went to a hardware store and bought silver polish. So at that moment, as the song began, I realized that I was turning into my mother. Going home to her, in a sense.

And then I thought of the bond shared with my beloved daughter, with whom I spent the morning again. I took Eli to the park while she tended to some legal business downtown, and then the 3 of us went to the Y. He played happily for 2 hours in the playroom while I did a class and Anna read the “Game of Thrones” book that she can hardly put down. Then the 3 of us had lunch and did some shopping. That boy gives me such a smile when he sees me, I feel like a fountain of molten love.

I wonder if my daughter will turn into me. I know for sure, she will not be polishing silver.

Okay, stop weeping now. There are scores of frilly peach-coloured roses out on my garden fence, on this hot afternoon. And the silver chain around my neck is shining.



2 Responses to “Go home to Mama”

  1. beth says:

    Testing testing … I had a message from Theresa today that she couldn't post a comment, and I'm trying to figure out why.

  2. beth says:

    But obviously, for me, it's no problem to post. I'm sorry if you are having trouble. No idea how to fix it. I'll try. In the meantime, please send me email messages at

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About Beth

I began keeping a journal at the age of nine. Nearly fifty years later, I started this online journal, sharing reflections, reviews, updates, and the occasional secret.

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